


Credit Where Credit is Due

by Letterblade



Category: Sengoku Basara
Genre: Badtouch, Breathplay, Discussion of Torture, Gen, in other words warning for Matsunaga, terminal illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 00:59:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1206967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Letterblade/pseuds/Letterblade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hideyoshi's past, and certain turning points therein, was hardly a matter for serious consideration as far as Hanbei was concerned. It was, after all, to be discarded. So he had not asked after certain scars, and Hideyoshi was not a sharing man; there was little point. Which, unfortunately, left him entirely unprepared when the man who left them arrived to claim due credit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Credit Where Credit is Due

"You're fucking Hideyoshi, I assume?"

Hanbei, of course, had always prided himself on his self-control. Even newly-woken, ribs sore from a bad fit that had taken him in the night, just pulling on his gauntlets as he paced to his office. Hideyoshi was surveying the troops at dawn; Hideyoshi would be in for a strategy update in a little less than half an hour. There were maps to lay out, in the clear morning light. After the messages he'd received yesterday, it was time to move on to the next stage; things were going quite nicely.

It was _always_ when things were going nicely, fatalistically enough, that he'd get an unpleasant surprise like this. The tall, implacable shadow of a man darkening the corner of the room, his low voice grating on his ears. Lovely. Absolutely lovely.

"Ah, Matsunaga-kun. It's good to see you as well." He smiled pleasantly, barely twitched, tucked a last tie into place on his vanbraces, mostly unhurried, ready to rest a hand on the hilt of his sword.

Matsunaga's smile in return was hardly pleasant, but then again, his never were. "I was curious today. Does he still have those scars on his ribs, near his heart? The rather jagged ones?"

Hanbei froze.

He did; they'd lain furrowed against his cheek as he straddled him, time and time again. Hanbei had never thought it necessary to ask. Hideyoshi had never thought it necessary to tell. Matsunaga's eyes were dark and knowing, his gaze heavy even as he spoke as casually as if discussing a contract.

"It's hardly necessary for me to comment on my lord's personal affairs," Hanbei said blandly. "Do you have business to discuss? I'm afraid I don't have much spare time at the moment."

"Good. I forget unnecessary things, but that passed through my memory recently. I thought I carved them in deeply enough to last."

Hanbei dug gloved fingers into his palm behind his back. Considered, in _very_ rapid succession, about six or seven varied, painful, logistically improbable and extremely satisfying ways to kill the man--lock him in a room with an observation deck and Mitsunari armed only with a jagged rusty blade and the knowledge of what he had done to Lord Hideyoshi was perhaps his favorite--and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"If you don't have business, I'll have to ask you to leave." His throat so tight with rage that his voice was flat. Little failures in self-control. Revenge was so self-indulgent, after all. But oh, he ached for it.

"In a little while."

Hanbei leaned casually against his strategy table and the pile of half-unrolled maps. There was a bell close enough, Hideyoshi's personal palace guard was quartered on this level, and he saw no reason to drag this out, not when he could have twenty pikes up Matsunaga's irrelevant ass--

"The guards are dead," Matsunaga added, with no change in inflection, just as a puff of black smoke and feathers coalesced beside him. His accursed shinobi, the infamous Fuuma Kotaro himself. The last thing anybody wanted in their strategy room.

Hanbei hissed, drew his sword in a flash, flicked his wrist to unlatch it and send it coiling forth. No point in attacking Matsunaga. No damn point at all, not alone. He knew what the man was capable of. Wire and razor blades whipped over the table, shredded the maps he'd spent an hour drawing up last night--irritating, such a waste of time, but it wasn't as if he had all the particulars memorized, the maps were just for Hideyoshi's understanding and the lesser strategists' later briefing, better to destroy them and sketch out replacements than let a shinobi get a look.

He had a bare, heartpounding sliver of time before the shinobi moved like the wind. He at least spent it well. The first kick sent his sword hilt spinning out of stunned, aching fingers, and the next few tossed him bodily onto the now-scarred tabletop, sprawling, Fuuma crouched over him feather-light. The world slowed in battle-shock. Black-gloved hands reaching for twin blades, sunlight glinting on them as he drew, as they spun in his palms, came down, all in the time it took Hanbei to get one arm up against his throat--at least it would be a quick death--

His arm was slammed back down against the table. He still breathed, ragged and desperate. Matsunaga's low, humorless laugh grated in his ears. There was a blade driven through each of his jacket sleeves, through the joints of his vanbraces with terrible precision and into the table to the hilt, pinning him. He dragged at them with all his strength, but they held no edge to cut himself free; by the time he recognized them as sais, the shinobi had already vaulted off of him, vanished, reappeared at Matsunaga's side.

"In a little while," Matsunaga said again, and strolled over, one hand still behind his back, sword still sheathed. Hanbei bit back a growl of rage, stopped the fruitless struggle, schooled his face neutral, unaffected. Kept it that way even as Matsunaga leaned _entirely_ too much into his personal space, flicked aside the tassel on his jacket, and started undoing it, slowly, implacably, shoving it aside when he was done to bare his chest. Hanbei felt his blood run cold, felt his hands curl into fists in spite of himself. "I thought I might leave Hideyoshi a present first. Your weakness, laid bare for him."

Hanbei wasn't _normally_ this self-conscious of the shadows between his ribs, the wasting; he suppressed a shiver, gritted his teeth around a thin smile, dismissive. Rather disconcerting, really, _just_ how unpleasant he found being stripped and defenseless beneath that man. "As you've said yourself--it's not as if Hideyoshi hasn't seen this body."

Matsunaga loomed. Matsunaga slowly dragged stinking gunpowder glove and rough spark claws down his cheek. Matsunaga ripped through a strap on his mask and tossed it aside. It wasn't as if Hideyoshi hadn't seen his bare face as well, Hanbei told himself. It didn't matter. None of this mattered. Truly.

Matsunaga slowly slid his hand down his bare chest, trailing gunpowder and ash on his skin, found his solar plexus, and dug two knuckles into it. Slow, grinding, wearing his small and savage smile like a mask. Until Hanbei struggled for air through his teeth. Until his lungs clenched, familiar, heaving, and he thrashed against the table as he coughed, convulsive, a particularly bad fit, what with the stench of black powder so heavy on the air, the fight to breathe. Spots swam in his vision. His hair dragged in his eyes, caught in cold sweat.

Blood dribbled hot down the sides of his chin.

He went very, very still, once Matsunaga eased up, once he could breathe again. Ran a tongue over his lips, tasted copper and wax. If he squirmed, he might be able to reach the collar of his jacket to wipe his face, but that would only stain, hide nothing, no sense in indulging in such weakness. So irritating. So very irritating. It would have been easier if this hadn't happened. If he hadn't known.

Outside, the horns called for parade out. The thunder of thousands of feet began to drum against hard-packed dirt. Hideyoshi would watch them for another few minutes, then turn, come inside. A few more minutes to climb to Hanbei's office. He would always simply walk in, as was his right. It was usually pleasant, to know his warm bulk could be at his side at any moment.

Matsunaga perched on the side of the table for a moment and traced his fingertips over the whipcord down the center of Hanbei's sword, as if curious. The shinobi had already disappeared, leaving only a scattering of black feathers over the shredded remains of the maps.

"He begged," Matsunaga murmured, picking up the hilt and turning it over in his hand. "He pretended to be strong for a little while, but the flesh we're made of is so terribly weak to pain. A body is just a thing, after all, to be used as whoever is the strongest desires, and physical strength gives no edge against agony. The big ones break the easiest, in fact, I'm sure you'd understand why." Hanbei gritted his teeth, choked for air and tried to tune him out. No sense in listening, this was all so pointless. "He began to beg when his legs gave out, if memory serves." Matsunaga found the catch to retract the cord, watched in satisfaction as the pieces clicked into place. "He wept not long after, when I began to mark him. After all, he hadn't realized, until then, that the body he'd spent such time honing was only meat. He understood the world a lot better, by then."

"Do you have a point, Matsunaga-kun?" Hanbei bit out.

"Mm." Matsunaga turned, laid the sword neatly beside him, and just studied him. As if he was claiming this moment for his treasure collection. "I'll come back for this later, after I see how he reacts to this gift. But I'm curious, Hanbei. Would you consider the man Hideyoshi is today to be his true self?"

Hanbei struggled to draw his next breath, bristled, tried not to do so visibly. "Of course." He was really, _entirely_ sick and tired of having that questioned, after all, Keiji had been such a pest recently.

Even if the glint in Matsunaga's eyes told him that he'd sprung some trap--no, it was true, he'd not waver in his belief in Hideyoshi just for something as piddling as outwitting a philosophy-addled madman.

"You should thank me, then," Matsunaga said, slow and smug. "Toyotomi Hideyoshi is my greatest creation, I've been pleased to see how that thing is developing once I released it back into the world. You cannot see a thing's true beauty, nor strength, until you destroy it. If I hadn't broken him, he would still be just like he was, weakened by attachment to fleeting things. A man who would weep to see you like this. Just like Keiji."

For a moment, Hanbei's world went blank.

Matsunaga raised a hand, snapped his fingers. The explosion followed so quickly that Hanbei could almost, almost delude himself that the shock had been only from that. The noise left him reeling.

"Then you should have taken Keiji too!" Hanbei snarled into the maelstrom.

Matsunaga's laugh echoed. No response. And then he was gone. Black smoke wafted through the morning light, faded. The castle gates opened; the castle gates closed. Hanbei let his head clunk back against the table, panted. Bit his lip against any sound, against any _thought_ , what did it matter if there was a little more blood on him?

The past didn't matter. Hideyoshi was strong. Hanbei curled his hands into fists, felt his chest burble gently as he breathed, felt blood cool on his face, watched the daylight brightening the ceiling and listened to Hideyoshi's heavy footsteps climbing the stairs. His misery was weakness, meaningless, he could ignore it, he truly could; he could drive the unwanted thoughts from his head, Hideyoshi crumpled to his knees, Hideyoshi begging for mercy as Matsunaga carved in the scars that Hanbei had once run his fingers over, old and furrowed and half-hidden by gray hair. He really ought to thank the bastard--if Hideyoshi saw his weakness, if Hideyoshi cast him away, it would serve him well, would it not? Things were far enough along. The last few pieces falling into place. He would have to draw replacement maps, leave them with Gyobu. Mitsunari had some growing yet to do, it was true...

None of it mattered. Hideyoshi was strong.


End file.
